


Kagome, Kagome

by Anonymous



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Murder, Rape/Non-con Elements, Verbal Abuse, rip near's sanity we had a good run
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:54:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25157317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Near was weak. He was small, he was helpless, and he never fought back.Right?(Last episode, canon divergent)
Relationships: Near | Nate River/Yagami Light
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49
Collections: Anonymous





	Kagome, Kagome

**Author's Note:**

> This is very fucked up  
> warnings for hand trauma and throat trauma. If descriptions of these things being injured squick you, I advise staying away.

He thinks the first time he ever heard it was when he was a child.

"weak"; a word meant to describe somebody's lack of physical or mental strength, typically in regards to a failure in protecting themselves or letting pain get too close to their heart. 

Near recalls the first instance he could remember of being called such. He was eight.

Though, to be fair, he doesn't remember his life before entering Wammy's House. For all he cared, Wammy's _had_ been his entire life, and it's all it ever was. When he was eight, he couldn't speak. Most kids could by that age, but he was different.

He was capable of forming complex sentences in his head, visualizing and articulating abstract concepts that peers older than him were not able to. But he couldn't write; holding a pencil felt too weird, and his handwriting came out as scribbles. He couldn't speak; his voice would catching in his throat, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get a word out.

He hated noise, he hated light, he hated touching and feeling and talking. Worst of all, he couldn't communicate any of it, so he could only cry.

And, perhaps, that's how he was first labeled as "weak".

Now, of course, Near recognizes the causes of these triggers as being undiagnosed and untreated severe autism, but children kept in an institution fighting to prove their worth don't usually care to ponder the mental state or condition of their peers, however ironic that may be.

Perhaps even more ironic is who used to stand up for him back when he was a _helpless_ little child: Mello.

Mello was everything Near was not: loud, abrasive, physical, and strong. His perfect opposite.

Before they were "enemies", Mello was what Near considered a friend of his. He was the only one who cared enough to yell at children who made him cry, who antagonized him and weaponized his sensory issues. He grew to learn many of Near's nonverbal ways of communicating, and relayed what he was trying to say to Roger. He helped him learn and grow used to, what Near considered, odd sensations, if only indirectly because of his naturally loud voice. By all means, Near valued Mello more than he did himself. Even if the other grew to hate him once he became competition, Near still could never hate him back. Never.

_"You need to learn to stand up for yourself," Mello tells him with averted eyes. The bed squeaks as he gently hops off it, his body weight being light enough that his feet's collision with the wooden flooring was nothing but a soft patter. "You can't rely on people forever, you know."_

_Near didn't understand at the time. He didn't understand what Mello meant; what he was_ trying _to say. He hummed, confused._

_"The world is cruel," the words left Mello's mouth like they were a scripture of gospel, passed down and recited endlessly; he says it like it was an inherent fact that meant nothing to him. It was meaningless. "And the only person you can trust is yourself. You're too helpless. You need to be stronger if you want to live."_

_"But," Near's voice trembles, not from any emotion but simply because it was a time where he was just getting used to speaking, "why? The world doesn't have to be cruel. Not when you're here, Mello."_

_"There's no "why" to it, Near. The world has always been that way, and always will." _Mello looks back at him, finally meeting his gaze with icy blue eyes that burned in the coldest way possible; burning in a way Near had never seen before. "_ We won't be friends forever. The sooner you learn that, and the sooner you learn to fight for yourself, the better chance you have at surviving."_

_Near didn't reply then; he watched blankly as Mello left his room, not even casting a glance back as he shut the door. He wants to say something, but he can't. His mouth won't work. A feeling, sick and heavy, is bubbling up in his chest. Not quite sadness, but not quite anger. Perhaps he was feeling wronged, or feeling upset that Mello was right in some capacity. The fact he couldn't get his tongue to move was all the evidence he needed to tell him that he_ was _helpless. He needed to be stronger, he knew that, but he couldn't understand why Mello insisted that such things needed to be achieved in solitude. The more the words ate at him, the more that heavy feeling made itself known to Near. A feeling he would come to understand as desolation, accompanied only by a question that he would never get an answer to._

Why would you say such a thing?

* * *

Near was startled awake with a gasp, cold sweat trickling down his temples. He struggled—body trembling and head ringing with a splitting headache—to get up. A million questions all flooded to his mind at once, only exacerbating the headache. Namely, he wanted to know where he was; the floor was smooth and ice-cold, it was damp-smelling but didn't have a particular scent to it, and based upon the general echo, it was quite large of a room. 

Then, it clicked.

The memories of his encounter came flooding back in an instant. A warehouse meeting, just him and Light Yagami, and then, and then—

He was still in the warehouse, he knew that much; that was good, he was still here. He knew where he was. How much time had passed? He remembered Kira trying to physically assault him—some attempt of murder, he assumed—and then it went dark.

His vision was hazy, and he had trouble making out anything within the limited lighting of the warehouse. Thoughts and memories melded into a congealed heap of nonsense in his brain, and he felt himself slowly loosing his grip as the drumming pain inside his skull beat on.

_My name is Near. I am eighteen years old. I grew up in Winchester, England. My birthday is August 24, 1991. My name is Near. I am eighteen years old. I grew up in Winchester, England. My birthday is August 24, 1991. My name is Near. I am eighteen years old. I grew up in—_

Near's attention snapped away from his mantra of recollection when he heard a soft, quiet click against the floor of the warehouse; a footstep. Before he could even think to speak up, the other voice did so first.

"Honestly, I didn't even push you that hard," it said in almost mocking way; his tone was glazed with cool contempt, but condescendingly so. "If you had died that easily, I would have been kind of disappointed. Are you alright?"

It was undoubtable who the voice belonged to, but the mixed signals only furthered Near's pain. _Based on the way he says it, I must not have been out for too long. A minute at most._

"You have no business asking me that," Near growled. His voice was slurred, not noticeably so but enough that it was off-putting to Near himself. He struggled to his feet, a hand placed to the back of his head where it throbbed most. Dry; he wasn't bleeding, thankfully, but that didn't take away from how much it all hurt. 

"I was just trying to be civil." Light shrugged, like it was somehow an obvious answer.

"Murder is hardly civil." On his feet, Near's legs felt weak and the world around him spun, but he stood resilient.

"Neither is lying," Light interjected. "Saying to bring no cameras and then attaching a bug to your clothing isn't the most _civil_ thing in the world either, now is it?"

The way he says that—the slight intrusion of anger and bitterness—it wins a fleeting feeling of pride and accomplishment for Near. "If you learned anything from L, you would know he isn't above cheating if it means wining." _And playing fair was out of the game once you killed everyone I loved._

"Perhaps," Light conceded. "But you're not L."

"And neither are you."

A brief silence fell upon the two after the words left Near's mouth. Somehow, the deafening silence was even worse than having to hear Kira speak. Perhaps because the tinnitus within his ears was only amplified given his head injury.

Near stumbled backwards, the heel of his foot colliding with a small, sharp object. He looked down—almost falling as he did so—to see jaded black pieces smashed into rubble. _The bug,_ Near recognized it as. That could be an issue, but overall it wasn't too important. Everyone saw what they needed to, and Light must have broken it when Near was unconscious. It didn't matter now.

"Nobody is watching us," Light echoed Near's thoughts.

"It seems that way." Angling his head back up, Near met Light's gaze. He wondered, why was Light just...standing there? Why wasn't he trying to escape? Or trying to kill Near? Surely, he knew he didn't have much time before his inevitable arrest?

Then he heard a click.

Narrowing his gaze, Near noticed a slight change within the shape of Light's watch. It appeared that a second compartment was now attached to it—or more logically, was always there, and had now just been opened. In it lied a white square, one that didn't take a genius in this position to quickly assume to be a piece of the Death Note.

Honestly, Near was genuinely shocked for a moment. He had already been shocked to hear his original plan would have failed miserably, but the fact that he didn't even factor in the _possibility_ of Light carrying a piece of the Death Note on him made him feel rather shameful. Regardless, he pushed those feelings aside.

"So, you've decided to kill me?" Near asked. "Go ahead; It won't change anything."

Light's movements stopped suddenly. He looked up—not with his head, but with his eyes—and matched Near's gaze. "You say that as if you don't care."

"I don't," Near replied. "Kill me or let me live, you'll be caught either way. The whole of the SPK and NPA know you're Kira; even if I die now, it doesn't change that fact."

"No, that's not what I meant." the compartment on Light's watch snapped shut. "You act as if you have no ambitions or meaning to live beyond capturing Kira. Even L saw a future beyond Kira's arrest, because that was just one more case in the road of his career. For you, you act as if it is nothing but your career; your life." 

Silence passed over them once again. Faced with these words, Near had no genuine response. But how could one respond to such an accusation? It was especially pressing considering he didn't know if what Light said was the truth or not. Since a young age, he had been taught to succeed L, and when L died by the hands of Kira when he was just thirteen, what else was he _supposed_ to do other than dedicate his life to this? Maybe he wasn't the best at thinking ahead—if he was, Mello wouldn't have died—but truly, he never thought ahead to the aftermath of all of this.

_What was it that I was fighting for, again?_

"Tell me, Nate River," Light's words were growled out with thick contempt more noticeable with each syllable. "Do you not value your own life?"

Near remained silent.

In a haze, Near felt a sharp collision against his chest. He took in a sharp inhale, bucking his arms behind him to cushion his fall onto the ground in order to save himself from further head trauma. Sharp pain shot up his elbows and through his shoulders, but it was miles more bearable than the pain from before. His eyes stared up at Light; the taller, suited man pinned him down, forcing his shoulders to the cold floor of the warehouse. A smell like petrichor, once dull in the background, suddenly invaded his senses and overwhelmed his mind.

"Well? Does life not matter to you?" Light pressed harder, _growling_ harder, his finger nails digging into Near's shoulders, scarcely shielded by thin fabric.

"I am under no obligation to answer any question of yours," Near responded calmly and low, despite the pounding in his cheat and within his skull.

The man above him clicked his tongue and, for a fleeting moment, Near _swore_ the coloration of eyes was a menacing, maniacal red—but he must have imagined it, because within a blink they were brown, like they always were.

"There's something about you, Near," Light spoke lowly, _quietly_ , "something that made you different from L. I could never place it before, but now that I've met you in person, I see it." taking his right hand, Light trailed it away from Near's shoulder and up the pale, delicate skin of his neck, placing his thumb under the curve of his jaw and tilting it up, meeting his dusky eyes. "L was not afraid of defending himself, physically or verbally. He was strong, and he made it known. But you, Near," he moved in closer, so close that Near could no longer see his features clearly as they meshed into a blur, "you don't defend yourself. You don't fight back. You _can't_ fight back. You take everything, and you take it apathetically in hopes the dissatisfaction drives your opponent away. But in the end, you're the only one losing. Am I right?"

Near accidentally lets breath hitch, and Light smiles.

"If your life means so little to you, and if you don't even bother to fight to back, then you must not truly care what happens to you or to the people you love." The sickly smooth cadence of Light's voice deteriorated, replacing his taunting and mockery with the tone of disdain and rage, like he's spitting out poison. "You're the kind of person I hate. The kind of person who cares for nothing, who has no ambitions, and has no purpose."

Near's breath caught in his throat as Light's grip moved down to his chest, strong hands curling into his tiny frame and holding him in place. "You're beneath killing. God punishes those who he deems worthy of it, and I believe death would be too easy of a punishment for you." Like a mother coddling her child, he coos the words out so gently that Near almost forgets who the man above him is. "If Hell existed, I wouldn't send you there. I'd bring it here to you, and I will."

Those steady hands of Light's slid down Near's body, all the way down to his hips, digging his fingers behind the hem of his pants like claws. He dragged the fabric down, hooking his nails onto Near's boxers, attempting to slip them off as the smaller male yelped, his own pale fingers digging into Light's.

"Get off of me!" Near snapped, an unexpected rush of emotion and adrenaline surging through him; It made his body tingle from head to toe, foreign emotions pounding in his chest and overriding his breathing in such a way he never thought possible. In a way, it made him feel more alive than he had in days; it almost felt like a surge of power, or the excitement one would feel in a life-or-death situation. But quickly shadowing that was a feeling of nausea and anxiety. 

Light scoffed with amusement, his lips twisting up into a smirk that didn't speak of enjoyment or laughter, but rather a thinly-veiled sense of anger. "I think it's a bit too late to decide to stand up for yourself. You're more suited keeping still and quiet like you always do."

"You don't know anything about me!" Near hissed, keeping his voice calm. He thrashed under Light's grip, twisting his body around as he slipped from the older man's grip, only to have him latch onto his lower leg.

"You're not hard to read, Near. Far from it." he sounded calm; it was as if Near's thrashing was of no concern—that his efforts were laughably pathetic. The thought only infuriated Near and made his struggles less coordinated. "Somebody with your kind of upbringing and temperament isn't that hard to read."

Near didn't even bother humoring him with a response. He growled, kicked and twisted his leg, the pain in his arms and head long forgotten and now replaced with an instinct—an instinct that set his heart mad. He slipped loose, clumsily jerking his pants up above his waist to avoid any tripping as he began to run. The bottom of his palms boosted him up off the ground. He was dizzy and off-kilter, his vision a blurry mess, but he skidded across the floor like, or what felt like, a pond-skater on water. It felt as if his feet didn't even touch the ground, as if he were gliding upon it with sheer adrenaline. But, perhaps, he isn't as fast as he thought he was—or maybe Light was just faster, as those with longer limbs tend to be—since he was quickly tackled to the ground, air knocked out of his lungs from the impact. His chest heaved, gasping for breath as he regained his bearings, but he couldn't escape the crushing pressure above him. His legs were pinned down by Light's own, and his wrists were held down. What little energy he had left was sapped from him as he struggled; flailing in a panicked haze.

"You should probably save your breath," Light advised. "Unlike me, you don't have any athletic training."

Near continued to pant, hearing Light's voice above him but being unable to see him. He tried twisting and turning, but his body was locked firmly on the ground.

"Hey, Nate, did you know L was the Junior Tennis champion in Britain? I honestly think he was lying, but his skills said otherwise." as Light spoke, he hooked his hands onto Near once more. "Did he ever tell you that?"

Near didn't respond, not at first. His brain was racing, quickly trying to think up of a way to get out of his situation. _Maybe if I stall long enough, the SPK can get here in time._

"N-No," Near answered shakily. He cleared his throat, returning his speech to a much more calm and flat nature; the kind he was known for. "Did you ever think to look up Junior Tennis champions to find his real name?"

"I tried, actually," Light answered. "You can never be too careful with any lead. As I suspected, he was lying. Or, at least, got his record wiped."

"How would you be able to tell if L was or wasn't on the list, provided you only had names to go off of?"

"It's customary for each champion to have their photo taken in commemoration. Even if L looked strikingly different as a teenager, things like his face shape would still remain the same."

"This would imply you have quite the photographic memory if you could remember his face shape so precisely."

"With a face like L's, you can't forget," Light chuckled. "But that's not why I asked."

Near hummed with question, almost genuinely forgetting his predicament until Light decided to flip him over onto his back, allowing his gaze to meet Near's.

"It made me think," he said, staring Near down with hardened eyes. Cold, burning eyes. "Rather, it made me realize; even the world famous L—the great detective—has a life outside of his title. He had a childhood. So tell me, Near," Light's hand began trailing down Near's thin body despite the younger man's protest; wriggling and squirming, Near attempted to free himself from Light, but the other's body was too heavy on top of his own—too firmly planted, like a weighted blanket of extreme magnitudes—and therefore, he was stuck. "Did you have a childhood?"

"I— _I don't_ remember any of it." Near's voice squeaked, rising in pitch abruptly as Light's hand trailed under his shirt and up his soft belly. Audibly, Near's breathing became more erratic—but only to a subtle degree. "Stop doing that."

"You don't remember?" Light inquire back, ignoring his plead like it were a child's quibble. "I don't think anybody doesn't remember their childhood."

"Well, I don't." _Although I often times wondered what it must have been like for me to develop amnesia over._ Quickly following this thought, he felt his pants being tugged at again, _forcefully_ , by Light. "Stop—" frenzied, Near dug his nails into Light's hands as he attempted to remove his pants, clawing at the flesh viciously like a feral cat.

Until Light grabbed his hands.

Near was panting lightly, his eyes wide with fear and seething anger, sweat beading down his forehead.

"Do you not cut your nails?" Light asked, snarling. True, Near had neglected to cut his nails for a small period of time; typically, he liked to keep them in line with where the finger itself ends, if not a short length after so, but his nails currently were a quarter centimetre longer than that. But he doubted Light cared about little details like that, nor that being the reason he asked.

Light took one of Near's hands into his own, firmly pressing his thumbs into the middle of his pale, white palm to situate it in place. Then, taking one of those free hands of his, took hold of Near's index finger. Light, with precision, grasped Near's fingernail by pitching under the length using his own fingers, before beginning to pry upwards.

Like fire, pain crackled through the tip of Near's finger and coursed through his entire hand, eliciting a sharp inhale through gritted teeth. He tried ignoring it; he hoped that, with any lucky, Light may stop short—but he didn't. Near felt the burning, ripping sensation only increase with intensity as each second went by; it felt like being ripped into, like a patch of skin scarred from hot-glue soldering being torn off. To the point with tears in his eyes, the intense sensation on such a foreign part of his body overwhelmed Near. He shouted, "Stop! Stop!"

"I find it a little pathetic that L's successor can only tolerate _this_ much." Light, thankfully, let go of Near's hand, the appendage flopping onto Near's chest. He quickly pulled it away. "Who knows? I might be doing you a favor and building up some pain tolerance."

Near ignored his words, his heart thumping too loudly in his ears to begin to even _care_ about what Light may be saying. Hand trembling violently, he rose it up to look at it; blood oozed around his fingernail like a fine velvet-colored string, dripping down his hand, its steady stream only disturbed by his shaking.

"I think you understand why I did that," Light decided to speak once Near had gotten a good look at the state of his finger. "As L's heir I would hope so, for your sake."

_I understand loud and clear, Kira,_ Near's mental words burned with disdain, his eyes glaring sharply at the man looming over him despite the recently obtained injury; a vital, untamed fire burning deep inside his stomach, giving life to his anger. _If Mello's hatred for me was even greater than how I feel right now, I'm surprised he restrained himself from killing me._ Near let out a huff of anger as he felt Light's hands trail back down his waist, catching a glimpse of the bright red marks he left on the other's skin. _At least Mello had the choice. I can't do anything. I can't do anything._

_I can't do anything._

It seemed, after the phrase coursed through his head a couple times, the realization of the situation finally registered within Near's mind. Though he was scared before when he felt Light taking his bottoms off—that was the moment he truly processed what was going on; what was going to _happen_. And, somehow, he found himself praying Light would changed his mind—that he'd kill him instead.

_But that's only natural to wish for,_ Near conceded. _Faced with the thought of an afterlife, seeing everybody I've lost again is something I'd much rather take._

A last ditch effort—Near writhed and thrashed despite Light's lower body keeping a firm hold on him. It didn't matter; there was no logic to it. _In the face of a futile effort, humans try anyway. It's just our natural instinct._ He shuddered when he felt cold air tickle his lower half's sensitive skin, his exposed body pressed up against the concrete flooring, smooth and icy. _Concrete is rarely left smooth like this. In the construction of sidewalks, brooms are used to create a texture for friction that prevents slipping._

He kept kicking and flailing, not paying any attention to Light's threatening growls, even if he knew damn well that resisting didn't do anything. _Despite its smoothness, however, it still maintains friction. All surfaces do to some extent, shaped with microscopic dents and hills that keep us from slipping like we're on ice._ Near heard a soft _click—_ the sound of metal colliding with the ground. Light's pen had slipped out of his pocket from Near's thrashing, but he seemed rather unconcerned with that. _But even that statement in and of itself is contradictory; ice has friction, just a relativity low amount._

"You're hopeless," Light snarled, planting his hands on Near's hips; Near's pelvis bone curved out, easily defined against his scrawny body. Light dug his nails into his milky white flesh.

He really, really hoped somebody would come in time.

_You can't rely on people forever, you know._

_You're too helpless. You need to be stronger if you want to live._

"I know," Near mumbled aloud, voice barely audible above a choked whisper as a sob threatened to break out from his throat. "I'm sorry."

"What are you muttering about?" Light asked, although soon proved the question to be rhetorical as he continued on. "I haven't even done anything yet and you're already in tears. Honestly, how did L come to chose _you_ as his successor? Surely, there was _somebody_ more capable. Even Mello, I'd imagine."

" _Even_ Mello?" Near hissed out, his sadness quickly forgotten to be swapped with irate. His hands clenched into fists, ignoring the fresh ooze of blood seeping from his torn fingernail. "You say that like he wasn't worthy already."

"He wasn't." One of Light's hands trailed down to Near's exposed crotch. "He was an idiot—a criminal—and he deserved to die."

"At—At least he wasn't a serial killer," Near retorted back venomously, his tone quivering as Light began to touch him; a sick, tainted feeling stirred in his gut, and for a moment he was afraid he was going to be sick. "No matter how much of a criminal Mello was, he wasn't a fucking rapist."

The emotionally-charged retort that fell from Near's trembling lips coaxed a short snicker out of Light, commenting, "I didn't know you cared about him so much. You two grew up together, didn't you? At Wammy's House?" Light didn't give Near a chance to respond. "Were you _close_ then?"

Near shut his eyes tightly. "Shut up." He vainly thought he could block this all out if he simply ignored it; if he simply believed it were a dream. "Shut the fuck up."

"You've never had sex before have you, Near?" The question was merely a taunt, a statement veiled to be an inquiry; a statement Light already knew the answer to. "Will you be upset that I'm the first person you'll have it with?" Succeeding his words was a sudden, intrusive feeling in Near's rectum—and he could guess it to be Light's fingers. He sucked in a shaky, loud gasp; the sick feeling in his stomach only increasing. He wanted to retaliate, he wanted to _scream_. But he knew nothing but humiliation would come from it. He feared to move, not for punishment but in fear of how it would _feel_ to struggle while a part of Light was inside him. Despite his will, a broken sob left his mouth.

"You do have something in common with L, though," Light continued on, "I couldn't ever see you having any sexual desires. But perhaps I'm wrong. Maybe there was a girl you had your heart set on." Near continued to breath heavily through the uncomfortable sensation pulsating inside his body, ignoring the tears welling up in his eyes. "Or maybe even a boy. You sounded like you liked Mello quite a bit."

And Near _knew_ Light was only trying to get a rise out of him. He was trying to humiliate him in any way he could; _that's_ what victory meant to Light. Even if he were outed as Kira, he wouldn't let Near get away with it proudly. He'd hurt him—humiliate him and L's legacy in whatever way possible, no matter how childish or sadistic or _nauseatingly, gruesomely vile._ That's what victory was: a lasting trauma; a lasting impression. A way to have the last laugh. That's all Kira cared about.

Near was fully aware that he was _trying_ to pry a reaction out of him. And yet,

"Stop _talking_ about him! Just shut your fucking mouth already!" Near screamed out, His voice was shrill and keening, more than he could ever remember it being.

It put a smirk on Light's face.

Near knew he was only giving him the satisfaction of his anguish and humiliation, but he couldn't care, he _didn't_ care. He just wanted this to be _over_ already. Breaths came out fast in gulps through his mouth, his chest heaving with each noisy intake. His own blood was roaring in his ears, thoughts crazed into a non-linear stream of nonsense. Questions, thoughts, memories and wonders popped into his mind left from right with little to no reason or bearing on his current situation.

_My name is Near. I am eighteen years old. I grew up in Winchester, England. My birthday is August 24, 1991. My name is Near. I am eighteen years old. I grew up in Winchester, England. My birthday is August 24, 1991. My name is Near. I am eighteen years old. I grew up in Winchester, England. My birthday is August 24, 1991. My name is—_

"Nate," Light softly called, as if waking a partner from their sleep. "Open your eyes."

Near kept his eyes shut and his teeth clenched behind a closed mouth. When he failed to comply, he heard a faint, disappointed sigh from above him followed by some shifting noises. He was actually coerced into opening his eyes when he felt Light's fingers slide out of him, allowing him to release a breath he wasn't even aware he was holding.

Near peered through tear-blurred eyes to meet Light's gaze staring down at him from directly above. Directly in control. _I can't do anything._

In a motion Near was sure was supposed to degrading, Light lifted a hand up and ran his thumb down Near's pale cheek, tinted red from the strain of crying. He rubbed a few of the tears away, the stray droplets wetting the sides of his hair that always brushed against his face.

"Let me go," Near quietly pleaded. While he hated resorting to begging—no, it wasn't _begging_ , it was a simple _request,_ that was all—he didn't know what else he could do. 

_I'm relying on Kira to let me go, and on what grounds? Good faith?_ Even Near was aware how ridiculous he sounded, but inside he was too exhausted to really care.

The subtle aversion of his eyes told Light everything he needed to know. He cupped Near's cheek despite the smaller male's attempt to jerk his head away, pulling him forward. "Asking to be released isn't something to be ashamed of." He paused. "I once asked L to release me from confinement plenty of times. You know what happened?"

Near didn't respond. Rather, he looked steadily at the ground.

"He didn't let me go."

Two hands now forcefully attaching themselves at Near's waist, Light had already taken his own pants and boxers off—which Near was unaware of, given he could only look up and not forward. He did, however, undoubtedly notice something was different this time when he felt something _much_ thicker than Light's fingers press itself against his rectum. Near's breath hitched, and he squirmed, quickly getting out a quiet, scared "stop".

"Relax; relax, Near," Light eased, an innocent smile plastered on his face that made Near feel both enraged and ill. "If you get too worked up, it'll only hurt more. So just relax."

"I..." Near's voice, already being noting more than a crack, trailed off into nothingness. What could he _say_? Asking for Light to stop would be asinine, and asking him to be _gentle_ will only give him ideas on how to hurt Near even _more_. So he stayed silent. He closed his eyes, stayed silent, and _prayed_.

With any luck, like his childhood, he may forget this all happened, too.

His silence was short-lived, however. Light didn't seem to have Near's well-being in mind—and, yes, while that was obvious from the get-go to Near, he had hoped the other would have tried _easing_ in, or...something. Near had never had sex before in general, so on top of not being used to anything rough, he wasn't used to this at _all_. He had hoped it maybe wouldn't be that bad; maybe it wouldn't hurt that much (he knew he was lying to himself, but he had clung onto the thoughts like a lifeline). When the time actually came and Light pushed in, however, Near couldn't suppress a sharp wail of pain and a sob ripping out from his throat. Though it felt like his insides were on fire—being torn viciously and bleeding profusely—he forced his mouth shut, slapping a hand over it to keep himself from crying.

_You can be quiet. Just keep your eyes shut. Just don't cry. It's okay, you're okay, it's okay..._

He found his mind slowly slipping off to panic as he made frail and dull excuses in his head to reassure himself that it was _fine_ , he was _fine_. The nails from his hand—the luckily uninjured one, curled into the soft skin of his face, digging into his cheek as he tried to choke down any moans or sobs.

But as Light went faster, making his pace more abusive, Near found it exceedingly difficult to cling onto his false promises of security. The grotesque noises, Light's grunting, the burning, _gut-wrenching_ sensation—he felt like puking.

_I can't do anything._

_The world is cruel._

_"Wait!" Near was running; he skidded down the hallways of Wammy's on his bare feet, his steps wobbly and more like a quick stumble. "I needa'...ask something."_

_Mello's golden hair looks like an angelic, pale gold when it was illuminated by the moonlight—that's what Near always thought, anyway. He turns around, and his face isn't giving off any sign of emotion. "What?"_

_"What if I can't do it?"_

_"Do what?"_

_"Protect myself." Near grabs Mello's sleeve, baggy and unfitting as ever, and tugs it gently. "You just said to me that I have to fight back. What if I can't?"_

_"You can and you will." his gaze suddenly sharpens, and Mello looks much older—much scarier—to Near than he did a few seconds ago. "You will."_

_Near blinks. "Uhm, I dunno how to though."_

_"You'll figure it out." Mello tears his arm away from Near, the thin fabric of his sleeve slipping out of Near's tiny grasp. He turns around. "Even if you don't know how, it finds a way. If you truly want to live, then you will."_

_He said it like he knew what it was like._

_Maybe he did._

Near's eyes snapped open, glazed and burning with tears. He turned his head to the side, choking back pitiful sobs. _You told me I'd figure it out. But what am I suppose to do?_

_What_ can _I do?_

Near's whole body trembled, his hand started to curl further into his skin, but for a separate reason this time. Eyes wide and pants shallow, he almost felt lifeless.

_I'd do anything to make this stop._

His eyes made contact with the pen that had rolled onto the ground, only a little whiles away.

_I'd do_ anything.

He forced himself to keep his mouth shut, no matter how badly he wanted to scream or cry out. This was more important—no, this was _vital_.

He angled his upper body slightly to the left, the pain of moving even a tiny bit in this situation being almost unbearable. He let out a few suppressed sobs that rumbled in his throat. He barely registered it, though. He had a goal in mind, and he wasn't backing down from it; he wasn't going to let Light have the last laugh. He wasn't going to _take it_ anymore.

_I'm not small._

Near's hand grappled for the pen. He managed to hook it between his slim fingers and spin it forward, grasping it cleanly into his palm. The yellow-gold fine details on it seemed almost ethereal; they reflected what little light there was from the holes within the warehouse's roof, shining despite the darkness.

_I'm not helpless._

He wondered if Light had noticed him, but it seemed not. He was too busy violating Near's body—some _God_ he is. No God would do this. No God would stoop this low; Near was not religious, but he prayed that an afterlife did exist, just so Light Yagami may burn in Hell for what he's done.

He clicked the pen.

_I'm not weak._

Though his hand trembled awfully, Near gripped the pen with such ferocity that he almost wondered if he'd make it snap in two. He was sure Light heard the pen click—fitting, almost, for him to die by a pen—and made sure to act before Light could realize what was happening. _I only have one shot._

Near aimed for the carotid artery; he didn't have time to contemplate his anxiety or the morals of his choice, he only had time to _act_. He shot his arm forward, ramming the pen as deep as he physically could into Light's throat—specifically, the carotid artery, which connects directly to the heart and the brain—as soon as he stabbed him, he pulled the pen out, fresh, crimson blood spurting from the wound and dripping onto Near's white clothes and tear-stained face. Light, throat oozing out, made an _awful,_ gut-wrenching noise. It wasn't loud—far from it—but it was this pathetic, sick gurgle that caused more blood to cascade out at a nauseating pace. With his opening for opportunity, Near kicked himself away from Light, thankfully timing his attack while Light had pulled out with the intention to thrust back in, so disconnecting himself from the mass murderer wasn't terribly difficult.

Light collapsed onto Near's legs, blood draining out onto the other's baggy white pajama pants and onto the concrete floor. Near tried pulling his legs up and succeeded in doing so despite the burning _agony_ coursing through his rectum. Right now, however, the adrenaline was overriding most of the pain, so he was able to bare it as he pulled his pants and boxers back up, not caring that they were both thoroughly soaked with blood.

But now, he couldn't move. His joints were locking up, sweating and trembling with adrenaline and shock; he felt rigid like a mountain. The pen was long forgotten, bloodied and dropped to the ground when he had let go of it. Now he just sat mere inches away from Light's collapsed body, surrounded by copious amounts of blood. The overwhelming stench of copper and adrenaline settling in the pit of his stomach made him gag, but he forced himself to keep it together, minimizing it to hyperventilation and shaking.

_I'm alive._

It doesn't feel like it.

_I'm not weak._

Yet it feels nothing has changed.

_Kira is dead._

But his memory is not.

Near didn't know how long he had spent frozen in one position, endlessly panting and shaking with wide eyes. He watched Light's blood leak out until the puddle stopped growing. He sat there until the blood on his clothes became cold and sticky and any semblance of warmth and life faded from them. He sat there until the droplets of blood splattered on his face had dried completely. He sat in silence, and for a moment, for a _moment_ , he was convinced it was only a dream. No, not a dream—the worst nightmare he's _ever_ had.

"Near!"

A voice, loud and clear, echoed outside from the warehouse. The sound vibrations bounced around the metal chamber, and though he identified the voice as Lidner's—signifying the SPK's arrival—he couldn't help but picture a different blonde in his mind.

_The world doesn't have to be cruel. Not when you're here, Mello._

**Author's Note:**

> this was actually pretty uncomfortable to write at points, especially the murder scene. I actually have terrible issues with throat trauma, so sorry if it wasn't terribly realistic (I couldn't handle doing much research).  
> Overall though it was cathartic to write :)


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